The Powderbox Revolver
by EquestrianCSI
Summary: Follows after The Cat Song an old confederate soldier's ghost knows Melinda has the weapon he's looking for.


**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of Ghost Whisperer, it's characters, actors or anything related to the show. This is my own work of fan-fiction.**

The Pepper-box Revolver

Sitting at her triple dresser, Melinda ran the brush through her shoulder-length hair. Jim had cut a couple of inches off of it after Melinda had accidentally gotten it caught in the kitchen garbage disposal during a rather strong encounter with a ghost. Cutting was the only way Jim had been able to free his wife, and although she didn't want it cut, Melinda had to admit that it looked pretty good. Her husband had helped her trim up the ends with scissors, and Andrea had complimented her when Melinda got to the store later that morning.

Now, as she sat the brush on the dresser and moved to stand, she felt a rush of wind and smelled the scent of gunpowder in the air. Frowning, Melinda turned, gasping at the sight of the apparition behind her.

Dressed in the grey uniform of a Confederate soldier, the ghost looked to be in his early fifties with a medium length grey beard and penetrating eyes. Closing her eyes, Melinda willed both the ghost to be gone, and her heart to stop its wild pounding in her chest. To her dismay, when she opened her eyes, the ghost was still present.

"What do you want?" Melinda asked warily, knowing from past experience that some ghosts had serious anger management issues.

The uniformed man glared, sending shivers up her spine. He was tall; well over six feet, and he wore a saber at his side.

"Give me my weapon," he boomed, his voice seeming to shake the bedroom walls.

"I don't know what you mean," Melinda answered, feeling somewhat frightened and irritated all at the same time.

"You have my weapon," the ghost replied, and stalked toward her.

Melinda shrank into herself, hunching her shoulders and clenching her fists in her lap.

"I don't have a weapon here," she said, and the ghost laughed.

"You bought it and it's in the store," he said, and was gone before Melinda could take another breath.

Standing, Melinda grabbed her sweater, jamming her arms through the sleeves as she hurried down the stairs. Jim was just rounding the corner and they collided, the bowl of popcorn in her husband's hand falling to the floor.

"Hey," he laughed, looking into his wife's troubled face. "What's up?" he asked, and Melinda shrugged.

"That pepper-box revolver I bought the other day," she sighed, and Jim raised an eyebrow.

"It came with an attachment?" he asked, and Melinda nodded.

"And not the kind you get in an email." She said, and picked up her keys.

Jim frowned, stepping carefully around the spilled popcorn on the floor.

"You're not leaving now," he asked, realization dawning on his handsome face.

"No, you're not going to the store this late by yourself," he said, and his wife smiled.

"It doesn't look like I'll be by myself," she said, thinking of the ghostly soldier; "At least, not completely."

Jim grabbed his paramedic jacket from the back of the kitchen chair where he'd hung it when he got off work. He was used to Melinda helping ghosts- earthbound sprits, he reminded himself- but this time, he was going with her. Something caused him not to want her going alone on this job.

The village streets were dark, and Melinda parked in front of her antique shop, looking around for the ghost. Jim waited a moment before speaking.

"Well?" he asked, "is it here?" Melinda shook her head.

"Not yet, but I've a feeling he will be." With that, they exited the car and walked toward the store.

Melinda unlocked the door and they entered, Jim flipping the lights on more out of habit than the need to diffuse the darkness inside the shop. They had only been there a few seconds when the dressmaker's dummy Melinda had in the middle of the shop fell over and rolled a few feet across the floor.

"Great," Melinda muttered as Jim went to set it back up, "that dress on it is worth too much to be rolling around on a dirty floor."

She stood with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face, waiting for the soldier apparition to make an appearance.

Jim smoothed the fine white silk dress over the dummy again, and checked it over for any tears or stains.

"I don't think it's ruined," he said, and Melinda smiled.

"Thank you," she said, rising on tip-toe to drop a small kiss on Jim's cheek.

Just then, the antique gun cabinet on the other side of the room began to rock violently back and forth. The nineteenth-century revolver inside clattered around on the shelf, banging into the glass-front door. A pair of men's gold cuff links fell off the shelf and became wedged between the bottom of the cabinet and the door.

"Stop it," Melinda commanded, angry at the commotion.

The cabinet stilled, and the ghostly soldier appeared beside it.

"That's mine," he said, pointing to the revolver, which had fallen against the door of the cabinet.

"I bought it from a customer," Melinda retorted, still upset over the abuse of the antique cabinet. "It's not yours anymore."

This seemed to upset the ghost, and he stormed toward her, causing Melinda to back up against Jim's solid frame.

"It is mine," the ghost repeated, "I want it back."

Melinda frowned; this was absurd, she thought. What is a ghost going to do with a one-hundred and fifty year old antique revolver?

"Who are you?" Melinda asked, and Jim tightened his arms around her body as if to protect her.

"I'm Captain John Piper," the ghost said, and then saluted. "US Confederate Army." He clarified, and stood at attention.

"Well, captain," Melinda said, a small smile tugging at her lips, "what are you going to do with that revolver?"

The ghost regarded her silently, appraising her before answering.

The person you bought my weapon from," he began, walking away from the window, "is my great-grandson's murderer." He said, and Melinda gasped.

"What?" she asked, incredulously, sitting down beside Jim.

"What, what?" Jim asked, "What's going on?" Melinda looked at him.

"I bought a murder weapon!" she said, alarmed. Jim stared at her wide-eyed.

The ghost apparition walked over, and squatted, looking straight into Melinda's face.

"Call the police and tell them," he said, "they're ruling it a suicide; the woman did very well," he added, and stood.

"What do I tell them?" Melinda asked, and the ghost popped over to the desk where the phone sat.

"Tell them that the Piper case is murder; tell them," he paused as if in thought. "Tell them to look inside the barrel," he said, and was gone.

Melinda lay in bed that night, her mind racing. After the ghost's departure, she had told the whole story to Jim, who then had called the police. Sure enough, in the barrel of the gun was a tightly rolled note, blood-stained, with wobbly handwriting.

Before his death, Robert Piper had managed to write down his killer's name, roll the small piece of paper and stick it in his grandfather's weapon. The weapon had been used to shoot him, and the woman, upon realizing that her prints were on the revolver, had returned to the scene of her crime.

Placing the revolver in a box, she'd sold it to Melinda a mere six hours after using it to kill her lover. Without the captain's information, the note might have remained hidden in the revolver for a very long time. Melinda still felt a bit shaky from it all, and rolled over to get some sleep when she heard something in the hall. Sighing, she rose, careful not to wake Jim.

Stepping into the hall, she could make out the apparition of John Piper standing at the head of the stairs. She walked slowly over to him, and he smiled, his eyes friendly and gentle.

"Thank you," he said simply, "now my grandson can truly rest in peace."

"You're welcome," Melinda whispered, and noticed the ghost looking steadily at the wall in front of him.

"There's a bright light there," he commented, and Melinda nodded.

"It's for you," she told him gently, "its time for you to go."

The ghostly captain looked at her again, his face sad.

"I see my grandson walking toward me," he said, sighing. "His time was too early I believe, but it's not up to me, is it?" He began to walk toward the wall at the end of the hallway.

"No," Melinda whispered in answer to the question. Hearing her, the ghost turned.

"Thank you again," he said, raising his gloved hand in one last wave before disappearing forever as he crossed on over.


End file.
